


reptile tears

by ivermectin, orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crying, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Weird Supernatural Entity Biology, but essentially. there's crying and biology and conversations, crying is punk rock, i don't know how to tag this because there's a lot of nonsense going on here, it all works out in the end, vague mention of how much we hate tories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivermectin/pseuds/ivermectin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s just a regular Friday evening.Or, it would be just a regular Friday evening, if Aziraphale hadn’t decided to break into Crowley’s flat.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling (mentioned)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 225





	reptile tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incalyscent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/gifts).



> this is partially inspired by a tweet i saw about how crying over the tories being back is absolutely valid, and how a lot of people feel crushed right now. i KNOW how that feels, as somebody who voted in my own country to keep the fascist govmt out, but ended up With The Fascist Government Being Elected anyway :^( so yeahhhH. if you're sad & upset about the tories, this is for you, too. i hope it makes u feel at least a little better. idk. 
> 
> characterization is partly based off the show, partly based off radio omens. it's still Them though, don't worry. 
> 
> CALY, LISTEN, WEIRD ANGEL/DEMON BIOLOGY, CROWLEY'S WEIRD PAST, GAY BANTER, CROWLEY'S DEFINITION OF PUNK ROCK, CONFUSED AZIRAPHALE WHO IS TRYING HIS BEST (TM). need i say anymore??? this baby is YOURS now

It’s just a regular Friday evening. Or, it would be just a regular Friday evening, if Aziraphale hadn’t decided to break into Crowley’s flat.

Aziraphale is not in the habit of breaking into Crowley’s flat, but he feels something like despair emanating from the place, and he decides it’s not the time for etiquette. He takes the service lift up, wills Crowley’s door to open. This happens very easily, as Crowley hasn’t warded his house against his best friend.

The moment he’s in, he scans the rooms for Crowley, who, at first glance, seems nowhere to be found. A few random turns and empty rooms later, though, Aziraphale finds a familiar loose-limbed figure clothed in black, turned away from him, forehead pressed to the wall of what Aziraphale had labelled Guest Room #7 in his mind. Crowley hasn’t seen him approach yet, and he doesn’t seem aware enough of his surroundings to notice anytime soon. Aziraphale takes advantage of this to plan a strategy for possible interrogation and intervention.

Aziraphale is familiar with the angles of Crowley’s body. Of the way he wears his corporation, the slants and bends that, once, when drunk, the demon had attributed to snake biology. Aziraphale has seen Crowley sprawl in chairs, seen him saunter as if his body is made entirely of rubber. Aziraphale has seen Crowley over the eras, in whatever attire was socially acceptable, and in some outfits manufactured purely for scandal. He knows how Crowley looks in a skirt, in heels, in fishnets, in an evening gown. He’s seen Crowley in aprons, in loose shirts with fabric prints (he’s promised never to mention it again but he thinks of it every now and then), in dungarees, and on one particularly momentous occasion, borrowing a tartan sweater.

He’s never seen Crowley like this before.

Hunched into himself, his spine an almost perfect semi-circle, shaking. His face is in his hands, and he’s pressing his body against the wall like someone who wants to be held but doesn’t have anyone to ask.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, softly, hesitantly.

Crowley stills. He doesn’t move, but Aziraphale can see the effort it’s taking him to will himself to stop trembling.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale tries, mostly because he’s at a loss of what to do. Inching closer cautiously, like one would with an injured and frightened animal, he lets his fingertips brush against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley exhales, a muffled thing that seems to make his entire body shift.

“May I hold you?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums, and Aziraphale has known Crowley long enough to know that that is certainly a yes. He shifts, folds his best friend into his arms, carefully. Crowley virtually melts into the embrace, letting his face fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, moving his body subtly but certainly closer.

Now that Crowley’s in his arms, Aziraphale can see something that had been previously hidden by his body – a tiny pile of gemstones of some kind, heaped against the corner of the wall. He wonders at what they could be, but he doesn’t have to wonder much longer.

Crowley makes a choked noise, and moves slightly. He doesn’t detach himself from Aziraphale, but he shifts his face as much as he can. It almost looks like he’s crying, but demons don’t cry, do they?

Crowley blinks, and makes a pained noise. Before Aziraphale can ask if he’s alright, he watches a gleaming, tear-shaped solid clatter to the floor, and looks at Crowley blinking furiously. As he watches, another solid tear forms at the corner of Crowley’s eye, and as he blinks, it falls to the ground.

Crowley shifts now, pushing the stones to join the already existing heap. He moves out of Aziraphale’s embrace as well, decidedly not looking at the angel.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “What’s going on? Did you just cry a gemstone?”

Crowley makes a noise that isn’t a word in any language, and reaches out for the nearest stone in the pile. He gives it to Aziraphale, who inspects it quickly but thoroughly.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale murmurs. “This is a diamond.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t know demons could do that,” Aziraphale says, doing his best to keep his tone neutral.

“I reckon most of them can’t,” Crowley says. “Demons don’t usually _cry_ , you know. Waste of negativity, that. Absolutely angelic thing to do. Spill tears.”

He blinks, and makes a noise that’s almost a whimper, blinking out three more gemstones.

“Fuck,” Crowley says under his breath.

“Does it hurt?” Aziraphale asks.

“Does it _hurt_?” Crowley repeats. “Angel, really? Of course it hurts.”

“How do you bear it?” Aziraphale murmurs, so softly that it shouldn’t be audible.

Crowley, of course, hears it anyway.

“Not like I have much choice. The only way out is through.” He gives Aziraphale a crooked smile. “ ‘Sides, I always feel better after.”

“I thought only archangels could do that,” Aziraphale murmurs. It’s a confession. “Cry gemstones, I mean. And to cry diamonds, your rank must’ve been – ”

“Aziraphale, I brought several stars into existence,” Crowley murmurs. “Wasn’t exactly a low-ranking job up there, to be commissioned by Her to make the universe more beautiful.”

Aziraphale takes one of Crowley’s hands in his. Crowley sniffs, and then whimpers, and then blinks out five more diamonds.

“Are you afraid?”

“Of what?” Crowley asks. “Tears?”

Aziraphale nods, and then shakes his head. “The crying. It seems fairly violent, my love.”

Crowley doesn’t even question the endearment. He shrugs.

“Not the first time,” he says. “It never harms my eyes in any way. Besides, I’ve dealt with this for six and a half millennia.”

“Six and a half?” Aziraphale says, surprised. “How old are you?”

“Decent chunk older than you,” Crowley says, giving Aziraphale a mischievous smile. “6,742 years, if you want to be exact.”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops. Crowley smiles indulgently, slightly. It’s a smug little grin, and it’s an expression that would only grace Crowley’s face if everything were alright. It reassures Aziraphale more than he can express to see it.

“You’ve been crying for that long?” Aziraphale says, because sometimes his mouth doesn’t wait for his mind to catch up.

Crowley actually laughs, bless him. Or, damn him, maybe. Aziraphale isn’t sure what the right expletive is to fondly express preferable fortune on a demon.

“Angel,” he says, drawing the word out so that both syllables of it have equal weight. It’s slightly sing-song in how it sounds. This is Crowley’s mocking voice, but he says it so sweetly. “Of course not, don’t be absurd. I’ve cried as an angel, you know. Before.” Crowley’s tone goes all sombre. “Not too much, of course. There wasn’t much to cry about. But even then it, uh. Hurt.”

“Oh, my darling boy,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had this experience with tears.”

“You’re a Principality,” Crowley agrees, but he says it warmly. “You were built to protect the humans, and to do that, you have to understand them. It makes sense that your biology would be equipped to make you empathetic. Human-like tears, and whatnot.”

Aziraphale hums. “But, Crowley. You’ve been in pain, for?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Crowley admits. “Before.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, it hurt,” Crowley says. “But you know, I always had Her Grace and Her Love, within me. Just here.” He presses a hand to his chest, above where a human’s heart would be, the spot in Aziraphale’s body below which his own Grace is focused and localised, if there were any one centre point. “It soothed the pain, after.”

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley, not really thinking about it. Crowley comes easily, lets Aziraphale press his forehead against the back of his neck, lets Aziraphale hold him firmly enough that Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s corporation’s heartbeat against his back.

“My darling,” Aziraphale says, gently. “What brought this on? Tonight? I thought everything was fine.”

“Tories,” Crowley says. He sounds almost embarrassed. “Healthcare’s going to take a big hit. Don’t like that, Angel. The medical field’s had so many advancements, but due to capitalism and bigotry, so much of it goes to waste.” Now he just sounds tired.

“Didn’t you get commendations for those? Earlier? From down Below?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums. “Took credit, but they did it all themselves. You know.”

“And this distresses you because?”

“It’s just lazy,” Crowley says. “Evil shouldn’t be so…. pathetic. Punching down? Denying help to the people who need it the most? That’s brutality. That’s easy to do. Picking on someone who can never fight back. It shouldn’t be done. It should be against the rules. Bigotry’s pathetic, you know.”

 _This is why you’re my favourite demon,_ Aziraphale thinks. Aloud, he says something far more incriminating. “I love you, you know.”

“Oh, quit it Angel, I just managed to stop crying. You’re going to make me start all over again.”

“Would that be so bad?” Aziraphale jokes. “You’re making us a small fortune.”

“Bastard,” Crowley says fondly. “Besides, not like we’re keeping any of this. I’m going to make a necklace out of it, and I’m going to give it to Warlock.”

“Warlock Dowling?”

“Know any other boys named Warlock?”

“You’re going to give Warlock a necklace made out of your own tears?” Aziraphale looks perplexed. “I know they’re diamonds, but they’re still your tears, my dear.”

“I haven’t forgotten that, Aziraphale!” Crowley sighs, but there’s no irritation to it. “I _was_ his nanny, I’ll have you remember. You should trust me to know what he’d like.”

“And he would like a necklace of your tears,” Aziraphale said, sardonic to the bone.

“Of course,” Crowley says, shifting out of Aziraphale’s embrace. He picks up the diamonds, miracles some wire, and begins to put them together with stability and confidence that nobody other than a supernatural entity could ever possess.

The tears look a little like teeth, Aziraphale thinks, and the silver wire looks like metallic dental braces.

“Warlock’s going to love this,” Crowley says, beaming, all talk of grief and Tories forgotten. “A necklace of tears! Find me something more punk rock than that.”

Aziraphale considers saying something about the bebops of the times, but he decides to let Crowley have his moment. He looks so _happy,_ after all. And a tiny, timid part of Aziraphale finds that he’s relieved that Crowley isn’t glossing over the fact that he’s admitted that he’s in love with his best friend.

 _There’s probably time for that later,_ Aziraphale thinks. And smiles. And gently, careful not to distract Crowley too much from his jeweller’s task, he leans forward, and places a chaste kiss on his beloved’s cheek. 

Crowley splutters.

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially going to be part of a bigger thing that i wanted to write, featuring Crowley as Raphael - here, it's just hinted/ implied, but in That, it's going to be a major theme of the whole plot. so!!! this was technically a glimpse into, well. Something that might be a little bigger. fingers crossed and all.


End file.
